Tortured Writer
by Ice Queen1
Summary: I wrote what the TV show hasn't - Jules is wounded and captured by the League of Darkness...Please R&R!
1. Default Chapter

First of all, my sole purpose in this is to cause Jules pain…horrible, agonizing, torturing in the cruelest of all possible ways, though that is later to come. And yes, I know I'm sadistic. No, I'm not writing from the Prison Work Release Program or from the wacko shack. Those drips couldn't catch a cold, much less me. Now, without further ado, allow me to present the flaming of _Master Jules_…HAHAHAHA! (evil laughter). J And I'm not a great lover of Rebecca either, so don't mind the airy hoity-toity prickness about her. Please read and review! And forgive my rather crude interpration of their speech. I'm not used to writing the way they talk, and I have no idea as to when chloroform was invented, so that might be a slight historical error on my part. 

"It was a lovely performance Jules. I couldn't imagine a more perfect evening," Rebecca Fogg sighed contentedly, stepping outside.

"I could," Phileas, Rebecca's cousin grumbled. 

"You never enjoy anything," Rebecca admonished. 

Jules Verne simply shook his head. The cousins were usually fighting, whether it be about Rebecca's choice of careers or Phileas's choice of hobbies, and he had long ago learned to keep out of it. As they started into another argument, he dropped back a step with Phileas's valet, Passepartout.

"I enjoyed the show very much Master Jules," Passepartout said, making sure to keep several paces behind the arguing family members.

"I wasn't really paying attention," Jules replied, watching his feet as he spoke. "What was it about?"

"It was one of yours, I thought," Passepartout answered. Verne was acting strange lately, and he wasn't sure why. "What is wrong, Master Jules?"

"Just thinking, I guess," Jules replied absently. 

"About what?"

"Things in general. The League of Darkness, Count Gregory, the Cardinal…" Verne explained.

"Bad things," Passepartout said without thinking. 

"You could say that," Jules smiled as he saw the ashamed face of his friend.

"Why Master Jules thinking about bad things?" Passepartout wondered.

"Haven't you noticed how our encounters with 'bad things' have become more frequent? It's hard not to think about them. Especially Gregory…" Verne shuddered involuntarily.

"Perhaps, Master Jules should think about something that is more pleasurable," the valet suggested. 

"Like what?"

"Like who is to be winning the argument, Master or Miss Rebecca?" Passepartout smiled. 

Jules had to stifle a chuckle before Phileas and Rebecca overheard him. "Neither. They'll probably both forget about it or change the subject. They always do."

Passepartout nodded. 

"Verne, Passepartout, wait here. Rebecca and I need to speak with someone," Phileas commanded, brandishing his walking stick at the two, daring them to move.

A man from across the street waved jovially as the Foggs approached him and engaged in a lively conversation.

"Ah, Miss Rebecca, you're looking quite stunning…" the friend greeted. 

Verne turned towards the valet. "Passepartout, I need to do some thinking…I'll meet you all back at the _Aurora_ in a few hours. I just need to be alone," Jules said, taking a few steps into the shadows. He stopped when he heard the stranger talking with Phileas and Rebecca and listened carefully. The voice was strangely familiar, like he had heard it only briefly awhile ago. He shrugged the feeling off. It was nothing. 

"Master Jules?" Passepartout asked worriedly, seeing his friend stop short as he entered the shadows. 

"I'll see you later. Trust me, I've lived in gutter of Paris longer than any of you combined. I know my way around," Jules waved him off and disappeared entirely, leaving a very confused Passepartout on the curb.

"I say Fogg, is that Jules Verne, the writer?" Duke Roi Lafayette asked, nodding at Jules and Passepartout. 

"Hm? Oh, yes Roi. That is Mr. Verne himself," Phileas replied, glancing over his shoulder at the two. 

"I always liked his writing," Roi said. "I don't suppose I could talk to him?"

Rebecca spoke up. "Jules is not in the best of moods, Roi. I would not suggest talking at the moment. Perhaps tomorrow, and we could all have lunch together. I'm sure Jules would be happy to talk to a lover of his writings in the morning."

"Sounds lovely. It's a date," the Duke agreed. 

Jules scuffed his feet along the cobblestone, making sure he didn't hit the curb with his feet by accident. It was pitch black, the moon having disappeared behind the thick, heavy clouds. The alleyway was probably not the safest way to get back to his garret, but he also knew that it was the fastest with the least amount of people on a night like tonight. Not even the street lamps were lit, though not uncommon, Jules found it a little strange that not even the lights from within the bordering town houses filtered through to light the path. Jules slowed his pace, letting himself relax, his head dropping to loll on his chest. He swept his foot up against the stones and did a half hop on one foot in a bizarre dance step. Verne laughed to himself and began to walk towards the garret. He actually had a good idea for a novel he had been meaning to write. 

Verne was so preoccupied that he didn't hear the footsteps until it was too late. A hand grabbed his arm and shoved a rag over his face. Jules immediately held his breath. 

"Breathe kid!" a gravelly voice next to his ear rasped.

Jules defiantly pulled one of the fingers covering the cloth back far enough to hear a satisfying, audible snap. As the man howled in pain, Jules slammed his elbow into his attacker's stomach. The man released him as the air rushed out of his lungs. Jules had taken only a few steps when he heard the loud retort of a pistol and a sharp burst of agony radiate through his side. Jules was too stunned to cry out; he just lay in the darkened streets and watched as his own blood mingled with the dirty street water. He only vaguely heard the voices behind him.

"You fool! We need him alive! The Count won't pay for him dead!" the first voice ground out.

"I only winged him. He'll live…" the new voice growled. "Now finish him off with the rag. We don't want him seeing where he's going."

Footsteps approached and the last thing Jules saw was the white of the cloth. The heavy medicinal smell was too strong for the already weakened writer and he fell into oblivion. 

The two kidnappers crouched beside the writer and one toed him where the gunshot wound was. Jules didn't stir, only moaned slightly. 

"That'll do. Come on, before those infernal friends of his get back," the second man advised as he gathered Jules across his shoulder like a hunter with his prize catch. 

The first man lit a match and waved it twice before blowing it out. Within a few moments a carriage appeared drawn by two black horses and pulled up short against the three men. 

"Put him in the back. Make sure he doesn't bleed on the seats. The Count hates that," the driver ordered when he saw the blood from Verne's wound trickling down his carrier's jacket. 

The two men complied and clambered in the back of the coach. Within seconds, the alleyway was as deserted as it was before the incident, the coach having disappeared into the blackness and no one caring whether it had been there or not. 

Phileas and Rebecca had bid farewell to the Duke and had rejoined Passepartout on the sidewalk when they heard the gunshot. 

"Passepartout, where's Verne? I told him to stay here!" Phileas demanded, hitting his cane agitatedly against the stone. 

"Master Jules was saying he was needing to be thinking things out. He was wanting to be alone," Passepartout explained. "He went down the alley."

"Phileas, wasn't that where the shot came from?" Rebecca said, glancing at her cousin.

"Damn!" Phileas swore. He turned on his heel and dashed down the abandoned street and stopped short. There was no one there, not even a rat. He glanced down at the street and noticed a splotch of water that contrasted with the rest. Phileas knelt and touched it with his finger. It came away warm and sticky. "It's blood!"

"Jules…he's hurt!" Rebecca gasped.

"Worse. He couldn't have gotten far with blood loss like this, and there's no sign of him or a trail. He's been kidnapped."


	2. And He Thought It Couldn't Get Worse

DISCLAIMER: Okay, they don't belong to me. I have no idea who they do belong to, I have no permission to write this but I say to hell with you. I'm in a bad mood and I took it out on Jules fair and square. Reviews are welcomed. (And just think, if I can do this to my favorite character, think of what I could do to someone I _don't_ like). Have a nice day. Don't forget to read and review. J

Jules woke slowly, in stages. He first regained his sense of hearing. There were voices in front…? No, behind him, muttering something he couldn't quite understand. He caught a snippet, about something being dangerous? He shook his head and immediately regretted it. His head was pounding to the beat of his heart. Instinctively, Verne tried to bring his hand up to it, but he couldn't. Jules opened his eyes but couldn't see anything except for a bright light directly in front of him. He tugged experimentally at his hands and quickly discovered that they were fastened to whatever furniture he was occupying. In fact, he couldn't move at all. 

"Ah, Mr. Verne! I see you are finally among the living," a voice rumbled nearby. 

Jules blinked his eyes against the light, but he still couldn't see anything. 

"My apologies," the voice continued. "Monique! Turn down the lights so Mr. Verne can see his new accommodations."

The light dimmed and Jules could finally see where he was…sort of. He had no idea as to where he was, but he could at least see what nowhere looked like.

Prison. Or something very close to it. It was a large, fairly empty room, with no windows and the walls were made or either iron or metal. This was unsettling enough, but what really worried Jules was the machinery in it. Most of which were the likes of which he had never seen, and secretly hoped he would never see again. Verne tilted his head back to see behind him and he saw what looked remarkably like some sort of screen. Now that he thought about it, it resembled some weird laboratory or perhaps a hospital room. The thought did nothing to comfort him. 

Jules glanced down at his hands and discovered they were not the only part of him strapped down. His legs, chest, and shoulders were also fastened to the table he was lying on. Verne couldn't move at all.

"Sorry for the restraints, but you see…" the voice went on, "but sometimes people do not appreciate my hospitality. They try to get away from me."

"Can't imagine why," Jules muttered under his breath. 

A hand immediately clamped down around his throat, cutting off his air. 

Jules gasped, but couldn't do anything about it. 

"Never talk back to me, boy! Or this will a whole lot worse than it already is," the person ordered. "Understand?"

Jules nodded meekly.

"Good." The hand relaxed its grip and removed itself from Jules's throat. Verne gasped as he was allowed oxygen back into his lungs. 

"After all, I am the one that stitched up the bullet hole in your side, though I probably could redo it better. It looks like it might be infected. Is it painful?" the person asked, using his gloved had to jab at the fresh wound.

Jules inhaled sharply. Oh, God, that hurt!

"I see. Well, Mr. Verne, perhaps I should reveal myself." The person stepped into the light and Jules recognized him as the man Rebecca and Fogg had been talking to that evening. 

"You…" he accused.

"Yes, my name is Duke Roi Lafayette, employee of Count Gregory and the League of Darkness. And you Mr. Jules Verne, have a fascinating mind," the duke explained, bending over Verne.

Jules recoiled from Lafayette. "I don't think my mind's all that great actually."

"Well, the Count does, and that's all that matters. I say, what is it like, being able to envision the future?"

Jules stared up at him. "What?"

"What is it like to see the future?"

Jules glared at him skeptically. "I can't."

"What about those drawings that you drew? The Mole and the others…what about them? Are you telling me you just made them up?" The Duke pressed, unbelievingly. 

"Yes! They're just random drawings that I see in my head! They're _imaginary_!" Jules shouted back at the disillusioned Lafayette. 

"We'll see about that." Lafayette nodded to someone beyond the shadows and a woman stepped forwards, dressed in the same type of uniform that Jules donned for a short period of time when he served aboard the _Prometheus_.

"Prepare the machine. It's time Monsieur Verne knows that we mean business," Lafayette ordered. He walked around behind Verne and grabbed the young writer's head, straightening Verne's neck and tilting it back slightly so Jules was looking up into the Duke's face. "Would you care to simply tell us about those fantastic ideas in the remarkable brain of yours? Or do we have to go through with the unpleasantries?" he asked.

Jules stared defiantly and clamped his mouth shut.

The Duke sighed. "If that is your wish…" he indicated to the woman with a nod of his chin and she moved a large object forwards so Jules could see it clearly. Verne still couldn't really figure out what it was for. 

It was large and metal, with sort of a screen in front of it, and a round piece of wicked looking metal ring on a hook next to it. Several wires ran around and seemed to hook into the sides. Jules could see little other details. 

"This, Monsieur Verne, is a Sounmager. It uses electric currents to open the dormant areas of the brain and stimulate flow of information. It has proved very effective on the other subjects, though the information we got was pitiful. No use to anyone, I imagine. But yours, yours will make it all worth while. You see, this amazing machine's capability does not stop there. Using ultrasonic sound waves, it can actually _touch_ your thoughts. It's sort of like echo location. It bounces off of the imprints of your mind and shows a copy of it up here on this screen. Clever, isn't it?" the Duke boasted, saying all of this in sort of a sales pitch. 

Jules was frozen. He'd had experience with sound waves when he first met Phileas and the League of Darkness. The experience had almost killed him the first time around. This time it wouldn't be his body that would sustain the abuse. It would be his _mind_. All he could do was numbly stare at the horrid contraption as the Duke went on about the fine details, and perhaps, under different circumstances, he would have found it interesting. 

"Monique. Prepare him for the commencing of the project. I will be back when he has been tested properly," Lafayette instructed, bringing Jules out of his reverie. 

"I thought you said it worked?" Jules said automatically.

"It did, but that was on lesser minds. I want to make sure that it does not damage you permanently." The Duke grinned sadistically at the writer. "Would be a shame to turn you over to Count Gregory and discover that you were useless, would it not?"

"Oh yes, horrible shame. So you intend to use my mind for…?" Jules was actually surprised at himself. Usually, he would've been frozen with fear, but for some reason, he couldn't help himself at being sarcastic. For a brief moment, he understood Fogg a little better. 

"Oh really Mr. Verne, you can't possibly so thick as to not know the answer to _that_, could you? Look at what we did with the Mole? Imagine what we could've accomplished with you out of the way, and those infernal friends of yours. We would've killed the Queen and destroyed the peace talks for good. We'd have war up to our eyebrows and that, Jules Verne, is what we are about. Death, destruction, and mayhem. We sell to each side the weapons you can show us with your imagination and soon enough, Paris and the rest of the world will bend to our every whim," Lafayette explained, a distant glow in his eyes that Jules was positive he didn't like the look of. "Feel free to begin when I have left the room, Monique." Lafayette looked back at Verne. "I can't stand the screams." 

With that, the Duke turned and promptly marched out the door and it slid closed behind him. 

Before Jules could blink, Monique had taken off the ring that Jules had seen on the screen contraption and had all but jammed it on his head. Jules winced as he felt several points penetrated the flesh on his head. Several rivulets of blood trickled down his face. 

"Our apologies Monsieur Verne for any discomfort you will be experiencing in a few moments," Monique apologized, though it sounded no more like an apology that a rat's hiccup.

Jules shut his eyes in horrid anticipation of the sensation of electricity surging through his brain, and he didn't have to wait long. He followed the sound of Monique's footsteps until they were somewhere next to him. Abruptly, there was a slight 'click' and fiery agony lanced through his head. Jules's eyes shot open, but he bit his lip so hard that the coppery taste of blood quickly filled his mouth. He refused to scream, instead staring above him trying to think of something else. It was not possible. The screen was flickering like the picture wheel that Passepartout was playing with that morning, though Jules could see what he saw whenever he closed his eyes. The fruits of his imagination alive and flickering on the screen, the Mole, a flying machine, a strange sort of…Jules did not complete the thought, or at least, he didn't see himself complete it. Monique had twisted a nearby dial and suddenly the agony seemed to double in his tortured mind. He couldn't bite his lip against it anymore, having already bit through it so as he teeth touched each other, and screamed. 

Lafayette watched from one of the portholes as the young inventor writhed on the table, his small frame jerking and spasming with every volt of electricity surging through it. A smile played across his lips as he watched the screen, making metal notes of what was worth keeping and what to keep it for. He turned from the porthole, the man's…wait…no, _boy's_ screams of pain becoming too loud for him. Roi had always had sensitive hearing, and he knew that the images on the screen were being carefully preserved by a photosynth-is-thingy that one of his researchers had developed. Paper that would instantly copy the pictures when shown through the light from the screen. Very clever indeed. Roi marched briskly down the corridor of the subterranean laboratory and out into the sunlight. Roi blinked against the brightness after being underground for so long. The Duke pulled the hidden hatchway back over the opening to keep unwanted nosy rescuers away from the lab and the things in it. Or, people. He sighed as he looked at the sun. Undoubtedly, the Foggs would be searching for their missing comrade by now. Roi swore under his breath when he realized that he was to be having lunch with them in a few hours. 

"Confounded english," he muttered to no one in particular as he headed for his manor. 

Phileas, Rebecca and Passepartout were past being worried for Jules. They had been searching for the entire night with no sign of the aspiring writer except for his blood in the alleyway. No one had seen or heard anything and Phileas was sure that they didn't care one way or another if something had happened to Jules. 

"We have been going over and over these streets, master! And no Master Jules! I am thinking it is hopeless…" sighed Passepartout as he collapsed in an exhausted heap on the arm chair aboard the _Aurora_. 

"No, Passepartout! It is never hopeless…" Rebecca assured the valet, even though she was thinking the same thoughts. 

Phileas was pacing up and down the length of the _Aurora_, a flask in one hand and his cane in the other. "It is only a matter of knowing where to look," he reasoned. "What do the Secret Service know about the whereabouts of the League's Headquarters?"

Rebecca sat upright and blinked slowly a few times. She was exhausted. "Phileas, they don't know anything about the League at all, remember? And I'd doubt they'd care enough about Jules to start looking now."

Phileas began pacing faster. "Do _we_ know anything about the locations of the League's Headquarters?"

Passepartout answered tiredly, "No master. All we is knowing is that the _Prometheus_ has been crashed over America."

Phileas finally sat heavily in the chair opposite his man servant. "I can't believe Verne could just be kidnapped right from underneath our noses! Who could orchestrate such a thing?"

Rebecca and Passepartout nodded sleepily. 

"Perhaps we should retire for the evening. We can all function better when we've had a good rest," Phileas suggested as he watched Rebecca and Passepartout collapse against each other for support as they drifted off.

Phileas simply shook his head and headed towards his own quarters for some much needed rest. However, sleep evaded him. Every time he closed his eyes he would envision some horrible torture that the League of Darkness was now inflicting upon his young friend. Phileas shuddered at the thought of the young man being hurt in any way. And what the League had proven so far was that it felt no mercy, no pity, and would do anything to persue its desired goal. Phileas reflected wryly about his first encounter with Jules and smiled to himself when he realized he must have scared the living daylights out of Verne. And how quickly Jules had gained his trust. Phileas fell into a fitful sleep, plagued by what he would do if Jules was not to be found.

Roi had wandered back down to his laboratory around midday and smiled in grim satisfaction at the unconscious and prone form of Jules on the table. The young man had been unconscious for almost an hour after the two and a half hour session with the Sounmager. The blood from the perforations that the metal conductor rods had made when they had entered Verne's skin contrasted darkly against the pale color of his youthful visage. Actually, Verne's skin had taken on a slightly yellowish-green tinge. Roi vaguely wondered if that indicated that the boy was becoming sick, though the Sounmager had never had that effect on the other subjects. He rifled through the papers that now held the physical manifestation of the most creative mind in history. And the power that he could attain with such thoughts was amazing…Roi shuddered, not because of the sense of guilt that any normal human would feel, but because the air around him was quite chilly. Perhaps that is what was making Verne sick.

As he thought this, he noticed that Verne's eye lids were beginning to flutter and soon they blinked open, the soft brown eyes somewhat glazed and glassy looking. They stared unseeing upwards at the ceiling, until Jules finally summoned the strength to look at the Duke.

"Ah Mr. Verne, you've awoken at long last…tell me…how do you feel?" Roi asked curiously.

Jules seemed to have difficulty making his jaw work and his reply was so quiet, that Lafayette leaned closer to hear him. 

Jules waited for the Duke to lean close enough and with his last ounce of strength forced himself as far off the table as he restraints would allow and latched onto Lafayette's ear lobe with his teeth. The Duke reared back in sudden, sharp pain and Jules once again tasted the coppery flavor of blood in his mouth, but had the deep satisfaction of knowing it wasn't his. It was Lafayette's, and Jules turned his head aside to spit out the piece of flesh he had just managed to rip from the sadistic Duke's left ear. He smiled briefly with requital.

Lafayette grabbed at his bleeding ear with his left hand and felt the red, sticky liquid ooze over his fingers. He would not stand for this, especially from a low-life, broke writer! In fury, the Duke marched up to the Sounmager and slipped the switch, and spun the dial as far as it would go. Verne's screams were so loud he was almost worried that the neighbors several miles away might overhear them. But the satisfaction of watching the young boy writhe in utter and total agony of which he could do nothing about was too tempting. He grinned when he realized he could actually see the electric charges traveling up and down the small frame on the table. 

Phileas, Rebecca and Passepartout had not forgotten their previous engagement with the Duke made the night of Jules's disappearance. They had managed to arouse themselves before they were too belated to be considered fashionably late and around noon, they arrived at Roi Lafayette's manor. The butler showed them in. 

"Mr. Lafayette is having very nice rooms in his house," Passepartout noted, walking around the parlor. It was indeed a beautiful room with expensive furniture and original masterpieces of artwork on the wall portions that weren't covered by books. 

Phileas was sitting in and easy chair, leaning with his chin on his hands against his staff in a very un-gentlemanly position. Something was not right here, but he couldn't put his finger on it. The sensation was almost tangible, yet frustratingly hard to grasp. He finally stood and began to pace, though, not for very long.

"I'm going for a short stroll. Rebecca, please tell Roi where I have gone," Phileas announced and turned on his heel to march out the back door. 

Phileas strode briskly across the yard, going nowhere in particular, but somewhere in back where he couldn't see anyone else. As he walked, he heard a tiny voice shouting, as if in terrible pain. But it was so faint, he dismissed it as a forgotten memory. But it kept on, and became louder the further he walked until it began to fade again. Phileas turned around. The voice was not gone, simply quieter. He backtracked a few steps and it became louder once more. Phileas tapped experimentally in the grass and was surprised to find that he heard the resounding clang of metal. Phileas pushed aside the turf and found a hatchway underneath. The screaming seemed to be coming from below the hatch. Without hesitation, Phileas flung it open and stepped quickly down the stairs. 

He was in a metal corridor that went straight until it hit the dead end side. Along it, however, were a door and two porthole windows. Cautiously, Phileas approached one and peered inside. What he saw he knew he would see in his nightmares forever. 

Jules was strapped to a metal table so as he could barely move, and Phileas could see he was spasming and convulsing in agony, a metal ring with wires attached was around his head, set firmly just above his eyebrows and ran entirely around his head. It was Jules that was screaming, Jules's cries of pain that he'd heard. And Phileas didn't wait a second longer.

Lafayette didn't know what hit him. One moment he was standing over Verne, enjoying his torture, and the next he was on the floor with a bullet hole in his chest. Phileas standing over _him_ with a look that could kill. Phileas nastily kicked Roi in the chest where he'd shot him and flipped the Sounmager off. Verne's screams promptly died and his tormented body lay still, except for the occasional 'after shock'. 

Phileas looked down at horror at his friend. He was a sickly pale yellow-green, dark circles surrounded his eyes, which seemed to sunk back into his skull. Where the restraints had been were red and bloody chafe marks, and blood was dried in rivulets down his face where the ring had been around his head. His lower lip was also cleanly bit through, blood still running down his chin and neck to stain his shirt collar. Afraid to touch him for fear he would cause him more pain than he had already suffered, Phileas touched his fingers to Jules's neck, feeling for a pulse. There wasn't one.

I'll bet you thought I was going to finish it, eh? HAH! I enjoy getting feedback from you and leaving cliffhangers seems to be the only way. I was also writing this at 2:51 AM in the morning after being awake for almost three days.


	3. The Funeral

Okay, yes, I have been dawdling on this story, but I've had a lot of projects in the making that seemed to be more important at the moment

Okay, yes, I have been dawdling on this story, but I've had a lot of projects in the making that seemed to be more important at the moment. I'm not sure where I'm going with this, so this is most probably the last installment. Say good-bye to Jules now. Buh-bye!! And if anyone doesn't like this ending, you have my permission to re-write it once I'm finished.

PS. Can I call it or what? I won ten bucks off my friend on what the League of Darkness was planning on doing to Jules in "In the Beginning" AHAHA! TAKE THAT!

Disclaimer: Ain't mine. 

Rebecca heard screaming. She was sure of it. "Passepartout! Come with me!" she ordered, hiking up her skirt and hurrying out to the back lawn. Passepartout quickly followed after the secret service agent. 

He almost wished her hadn't. When Passepartout entered the large yard, he was sickened by what he saw. Phileas Fogg was several yards away near a whole in the ground, his usually pressed and ironed suit was disheveled and covered in blood. There was so much blood…then he saw Jules.

Surprisingly, enough, his feet did not fail as he ran towards the two figures, one of which he was almost positive was dead. Rebecca had already reached them and to his horror, she was smiling. 

"Miss Rebecca!" he exclaimed. "Why is you smiling?"

Rebecca looked up at him, but didn't answer. Tears were in her eyes. 

"Because, Passepartout. Verne isn't dead," Phileas said quietly. He held Verne firmly in his grasp, the young man propped up against his chest as if he was his life preserver and if he held him close enough, he could make it all better again. 

Passepartout did a double take at Verne. The young man certainly _looked_ dead. Blood was everywhere and his eyes were sunken back in his skull giving the impression that his brain had melted leaving nothing but an empty hole where a brilliant mind once resided. But Verne's chest slowly rose and fell, shallow as the inclinations were, they were still there. "Who did this to him?"

"Lafayette," Phileas answered tightly. Passepartout watched as Fogg's lips curled in an animalistic snarl as he spat the name of his former friend. Phileas caught Passepartout watching him and shrugged indifferently. "He's dead."

Passepartout nodded in understanding. That was the shot he'd heard fired back at the main house. 

"Phileas, shouldn't we take him to the hospital? I'm sure if you let go for a moment, we can go get the carriage…" Rebecca suggested. 

Phileas glared at her defiantly. "It only takes one to get the carriage. I shall remain here." 

Passepartout was suddenly aware of how much a father Phileas was acting like, protecting his son from the dangers of the world. 

Rebecca nodded. "Come along Passepartout," Rebecca ordered. Passepartout quietly followed, leaving Phileas and Jules alone. 

Jules opened a swollen eye. All he could see was the fine silk of Fogg's shirt. Verne could feel nothing below his eyes, and he was pretty sure that was a good thing, considering how much it hurt while Lafayette had had him in the…whatever it was. The Sounmager. Jules shuddered involuntarily at the thought of it. He was sure he'd been dying. He _was_ dying. He could feel his life's energy draining out through his multiple lacerations. But something kept him fighting, despite how easy it would be to give into the approaching darkness that now tipped his vision. Verne suddenly realized that Fogg's arms were crushing his lungs. He coughed and immediately, Fogg slackened his grip. 

"Thank you…you were crushing my lungs," Verne chuckled, but was interrupted by a fit of coughing. "Ow…" 

"Are you okay?" Phileas asked, sympathy and sorrow etched into the frown he now wore. 

"Never…better," Jules wheezed. "I feel like the first time we met…when you _kidnapped me_."

"That was a misunderstanding. I trust you now, and I know you didn't intend to kill the Queen," Phileas smiled, glad to see that his friend was still in good spirits. A lesser man would have been irreparably emotionally scarred. 

"I wasn't planning on being tortured by a mad Duke either, but it happened anyway," Jules replied. He suddenly remembered what he was going to ask. "Why are you holding me so close?"

Phileas seemed almost…unnerved…by the question and almost dropped Jules. "I was just…" Phileas struggled for words. 

"Oh look, the Great Phileas Fogg lost for words…never thought I would see the day. Don't worry," Jules winked a blackened eye at his friend. "I won't tell."

Phileas grinned, but quickly regained his composure as he heard the sound of the carriage wheels fast approaching. "Come now, Verne. We are taking you to the hospital," Phileas said briskly as he hefted the young man up onto the seat inside next to Rebecca. 

"Are you coming Phileas?" Rebecca asked when she saw him hesitate before climbing in. 

"I think I shall ride with Passepartout. Get some air," Phileas answered. In truth, he was slightly sickened by the destroyed features of his friend's body, though he was pleased to see that Jules was making a mental recovery even as they drove away. 

Several weeks later, Jules sat in his bed inside his garret, peering outside the window at the bustling streets of Paris and the multitude of colorful people as they wandered by, oblivious to himself and the fact that they were being carefully watched. It had almost been three weeks now, since his return from the hospital, and he was going stir-crazy being locked up inside his tower while his body recovered. His bandaged hands flew over the sketchpad in his lap as he doodled the people in the streets. He would go back and refine the rough sketches later. For now, he was keeping his remaining sanity by drawing random people in the crowd. Jules had tried earlier in the week to escape into the streets to go for a short walk, but had been intercepted by a secret service agent. The Foggs were taking no chances. Jules had the feeling that Phileas was feeling guilty, though he wasn't sure why…

The door creaked, causing him to look up and smile as he saw Phileas appear. Rebecca was not with them, probably off on assignment and Passepartout was most likely on the _Aurora_. 

"Hello," Jules greeted, putting down his notepad. 

"Greetings, Verne. How are you today?" Fogg asked, sitting down in a chair nearby. 

"Same as yesterday…and the day before…and the day before that. _Fine_. Now why can't I leave?"

"You mean besides the fact that you still look half dead and would terrify the populace? No reason," Fogg answered glibly. 

Now was the time, Jules thought to himself. "You know, I never did thank you…for saving my life."

Phileas looked down, suddenly fascinated by his shoes. "It was nothing."

"It was something to me. And…as a gift, reward, maybe. Here…" Jules thrust a notebook into Phileas' hands. "A rough copy of course, but I think I like it the way it is." 

Phileas looked down at the paperback cover and read aloud, "_Around the World in 80 Days_." He looked back at Jules. "A book? For me?"

"Well, it's about you. I thought it would be fitting if you were the first to read it. Passepartout is in it too, of course. Keep it," Jules urged. "It's my thank you."

"No," Phileas declared. "Thank _you_." He quickly thumbed through the pages. "What did you do with those prints of your…imagination that we took from Lafayette's lab?"

"Burned them. I don't want anyone to have them, except for me. I realize that sounds rather greedy, but I don't think the world is ready for what I can imagine," Verne replied matter-of-factly. 

"I quite agree," Phileas answered. He kicked back and began to read. 

Verne just shook his head and laughed slightly. _Now to start on illustrations for his book_. He pulled out his sketchbook and began to draw Phileas Fogg. 

Okay. That's it. I'm done. Happy now, you vultures? Whitefire, you owe me a new installment of _Purgatory_. Snap to it. As for the beginning part that I seemed to have misplaced, Rebecca finds Fogg and Verne, applies CPR, _voila_. Verne lives. And I filled in my own reasons why the real Jules Verne might've burned everything about him and why he wrote about Fogg and Passepartout. I bid you all _good bye!_


End file.
